“He grows them in water. Hydro something? Bah.” They both stub out their cigarettes, heading back inside.
Hydroponic trees. I remember that uptight asshole from the permit office mentioning that exact phrase. Could that rigid dweeb be presenting at some fancy event here?
I shake my head and get back to work. Time to let my professionals loose.
Chiron practically explodes from the trailer when I open the back gate, immediately charging toward the thickest patch of mustard, offended by its very existence. The goats follow in a more organized fashion. Persephone and Ursula head straight for their preferred knotweed, while the younger ones start methodically working through the ground-level vegetation.
“That’s my girls,” I say, watching them settle into their work. This is what we do. This is what we’re good at.
I continue setting up the temporary fencing, doing mental math as I work. I estimate the goats can clear about a quarter of this space per day. Four days total, maybe three if they really get into it. The contract says I’ll be paid on completion, which puts money in my account by Monday.
Finally.
I can pay Martinez, catch up on bills, and as soon as the city pays me, maybe even stock away a little for winter when work gets scarce. I realize we’re just a few weeks away from Christmas, and nobody in Pittsburgh is thinking about their landscaping that late in December. I’m about to hit a major blank page in my work calendar.
Persephone bleats as she strips leaves from the vines she pulls down, and I grin. “Yeah, girl. We’ve got this.”
A crash from inside the manor makes me look up, followed by someone shouting about proper handling. These fancy people really don’t know how to relax.
I turn back to my work, already imagining the satisfaction of watching this tangled mess transform into an attractive landscape. When Pittsburgh’s elite celebrate renewal and rebirth inside their marble halls, my goats and I will have delivered it.
I wonder what this revolutionary tree guy’s innovation looks like compared to eight goats and a bad-tempered donkey. Probably involves a lot more paperwork and a lot less actual results.
But then again, rich people love complicated solutions to simple problems.
4
Reed
The trees look perfect. Absolutely perfect.
I step back from my display, checking everything one more time. Eighteen miniature fir trees arranged as charming centerpieces on tables, their needles a vibrant green that practically glows under the custom lighting Paolo and I spent two hours setting up.
“Dude, they’re fine,” Vick says from across the atrium, where he’s adjusting a clump of twinkle lights for the third time. “Stop fussing.”
“I’m not fussing. I’m optimizing.” I make a minor adjustment to one of the trees, rotating it maybe two degrees. The look has to be flawless. Everything about this presentation has to scream professionalism, innovation, sustainability.
“You’re definitely fussing,” Kash adds, crouched behind the display table where he’s threading extension cords. “The trees are gorgeous. The setup is gorgeous. You’re going to kill this pitch.”
Easy for him to say. Kash isn’t the one who spent his last dollar on fancy lights that make the trees appear lit from within. He’s not the one whose entire future depends on convincing a room full of investors that hydroponic Christmas trees aren’t just the next hot thing, but a lasting tradition about to arise.
Bramblewood’s main atrium is honestly the perfect venue for this—soaring ceilings, natural light streaming through massive windows, and plenty of space for the forty-person crowd expected at the presentations. The whole Yule theme works in my favor, too. Renewal, rebirth, returning light after dark winter months. My trees embody all of that.
If I can just nail the delivery.
“Run through it one more time,” Paolo suggests, settling into one of the chairs arranged neatly around the white tables. “Pretend I’m a skeptical investor who thinks trees are stupid.”
“Trees aren’t stupid,” I say automatically.
“See? You’re already defensive. Start over.”
I clear my throat and straighten my shoulders, falling into presentation mode. “Good evening. My name is Reed Nicholas, founder of Urban Forest Solutions. What you see before you represents a paradigm shift in how we approach holiday traditions in an era of climate consciousness.”
“Better.” Vick nods. “Less robot, more passion.”
“I was being passionate.”
“You were reciting,” Kash corrects. “Tell them why you care, not just what you’re selling.”
